


Chop

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Explosions, Flashbacks, Junkrat's Childhood, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Omnics, Sex in Flashbacks, Tender Sex, Torture, Trans Junkrat, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat is captured and interrogated by agents of Talon. It doesn't go well for anyone involved. Takes place a few years before the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hello again, Overwatch! A heads up: this fic is unrelated to Catch, but there are a few shared headcanons, like Junkrat's mother. Also: there is torture ahead, but it is going to be not sexual or related to Junkrat being trans, for those of you that might be worried or triggered. The torture relates to the loss of Junkrat's arm and some flashbacks to the loss of his leg. 

Hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

 

 

Junkrat is certain he’s been in worse situations than this one, but he’s having a hard time remembering what they were. Currently, he is strapped to a sort of leant-back metal chair, in a glaringly white room with a big pane of one-way mirror in the nearest wall and a camera in every corner. The pricks that captured him took his leg and all his bombs, including the ones he wears strapped to himself. Worse, they took his clothes, which means he’s got none of his usual stashed bombs or even the spare parts to make one, and he’s naked. He’s trying not to think about that last fact. He’s trying not to think about most of the facts of his current predicament, and he’s especially trying not to think about where this predicament might be headed.

There’s a small rolling steel table to his left, which holds a tray of nasty-looking devices of varying size and shape. He has no clue what any of them do, but he can guess that their primary functions are “cause pain” and “cause more pain” and probably not, say, “transform into something that will allow Jamison to make a getaway” or “produce freshly-baked cupcakes on command”.

The door, which had previously resembled nothing but a blank panel in one of the walls, slides open seamlessly to admit a single slim figure in a suit, carrying a paper-thin screen that glows and beeps in one hand. Half the stranger’s face is hidden under a sort of visor that covers their eyes and beeps in time with the handheld screen.

“Jamison Fawkes,” the ambiguous figure reads off, voice bland and mild.

“The one and only!” He replies with a sickly grin. “Unless somebody else is named that, I guess. Never really thought about it. Guess there could be a whole mess of Jamison Fawkeses out there, maybe you got the wrong one.”

“Jamison Fawkes,” the stranger repeats, slightly less mildly. “Approximately 23 years of age, born just after the omnic crisis to… unknown parents.” They glance up at him. “Well, our records on you aren’t very extensive, unfortunately.”

They wouldn’t be, he thinks with a smirk. Technically Jamison Fawkes didn’t even exist— he’d always just been Junior to his mother, and then he was no one, until he was around eight and the Junkers took him in. They’d thought he was a girl at first, had grabbed him out of the bush with plans to… he’s never been totally sure what they originally planned to do with him. Well, he’d bit and kicked and set fire to their campsite and somehow that had impressed them. Big Booga Fawkes had taken him under his wing, called him Jamison when he told them he didn’t have a name, let him tag along and pick up whatever scraps he could get his grubby paws on to make a leg from. They certainly weren’t your conventional family, or even a very caring one, and more than once he’d had to fight tooth and claw to dissuade an older Junker from trying to have a root through his bedroll, but they’d been enough.

“Hm.” There’s a faint note of intrigue in the suit’s voice, and he realizes they’re looking at him, at the messy scars on his torso and then down at his hips, lower, and his face burns as he watches them type out something on their screen.

He wants to cross his legs but there’s a shackle around his left ankle and another one just above the mess of scar tissue on his right leg and he wishes he had one of his arms free at least to swing a punch at the arrogant fuck, he wishes he had a grenade or a mine or even a knife. He wishes ‘Hog was here. He lost sight of his bodyguard when the ambushers conked him over the head; now he has no idea where he himself is, let alone where ‘Hog is. Junkrat hopes he got away and that they’ve not got him strapped to a chair in another room. He snorts a little, thinking to himself that they’d be hard-pressed to find a chair big enough or chains strong enough to keep Roadhog captive.

“Well, as I was saying, there’s not very much to your file,” they continue, still tapping at their fancy computer pad thing. “But one very interesting little thing we do know concerns the loss of your leg. You were, it says here, six years old at the time.”

Had he really been only six? He’s never bothered much with keeping track of his age, and with all the chaos surrounding those events he’d never given it a lot of thought. When he does think about that day, or the days surrounding it, all he sees are the omnic’s coldlit eyes, steel fingers digging into tender flesh and pulling to the sound of high-pitched screams. After that it’s a blur of explosions, of dragging himself away through the desert and bush, eating beetles and roots and any rats that came sniffing too close.

“A traumatic experience, to be sure,” the suit is saying. “Losing a limb at such a young age, in such a brutal attack. No doubt it caused you unspeakable anguish, damaged your psyche in all sorts of irreparable ways.”

Junkrat stares at them, not exactly sure where they’re going with this.

“With that in mind…” They gesture at the window mirror and the door slides open to reveal an omnic holding a bone saw.


	2. Chapter 2

“Before we begin,” the suit says, drumming their well-groomed fingers along the edge of their tablet. “I’d like to give you this opportunity to avoid some of the unpleasantness that is about to happen.”

“Oh yeah?” Junkrat raises a single singed eyebrow, voice dripping sarcasm. He hasn’t failed to note their strategic wording— _some_ of the unpleasantness. Meaning ‘we’re going to torture you and probably kill you no matter what’. He’s also not taken his eyes off the omnic as it walks into the room and begins fiddling with the contents of the table. He tries not to flinch when it gets closer. He wishes again, senselessly, that ‘Hog was with him.

The suit lowers the tablet and takes a single step toward him, leans in just a few degrees. “Share with me the location of the item you found in the Omnium.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to speak up,” Junkrat says. “I caught that with my bad ear. Bit hard of hearing, y’know.”

They take another step. “Where. Is. The item?”

“Hmmm.” He shakes his head, lips pursed. “No, sorry, all I’m hearing is ‘I’m a massive wanker’.” He cackles wildly, his skinny frame straining against the chair.

“Regrettable,” they say, not sounding regretful at all. “Talon would have preferred you as intact as possible for the reconditioning. Well, necessary evils and all that. They’ll make do with what we leave for them.”

The omnic sets the bone saw to one side, reaches up with its other hand and wrenches Junkrat’s right smallest finger out of its socket in one quick movement. He stares in brief, unfeeling shock at the bloody knob of bone peering out of the open gap in his knuckles. Then the pain hits and his instinct is to double over, to tuck the injured hand in close and curl around it and scramble backwards away from the omnic, but of course he can’t move, can’t do any of those things, so he squirms in his chair and bites his lip until it bleeds as a strangled noise works its way up his throat. The wound spurts blood in hurried pulses, spattering the floor and the omnic, who turns away as if in disgust and drops his severed finger onto the tray.

The suit waves a hand at the small table of objects and the omnic selects one, flicks a switch on its side and presses the end of it to Junkat’s bleeding hand. He tries to flinch away from whatever the thing is, but it’s no use— there’s a faint hiss, a wisp of steam, a sharp burning smell and then the device is pulled back to reveal the cauterized wound, bleeding stoppered and skin shiny and white over the empty space.

He blinks hard a few times, feeling dizzy and ill, and the suit nods in satisfaction. “No sense in letting you bleed out. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” They tilt their head casually, contemplatively. “Pain, of course, isn’t all that effective on someone like you,” they drone on, sounding uninterested and unaffected. “But fear… real terror… now that’s the ticket.”

“Fuck you!” Junkrat spits, because that’s his default. He was expecting to be beaten bloody, maybe shot in the gut or lightly stabbed or burned or something of that ilk, not this under-your-skin, sense of impending doom nonsense. He hiccups a strange involuntary noise when the omnic reaches for his ring finger. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”

A jerk, a sharp rending pain as another finger goes, and Junkrat closes his eyes tight and thinks about Roadhog. Big, deadly, safe Roadhog. Roadhog with his rough hands and firm arms and soft belly, all of which make him excellent at holding Junkrat when the night fevers get bad or his absent leg pains him or even when he just wants to be held. Roadhog who sometimes laughs at his terrible, corny jokes (“Why don’t you ever see pigs hiding in trees? Because they’re really good at it!”) and even comes back with jokes of his own (“How d’you give a lemon an orgasm? Tickle its citrus.”).

He’d been so nervous he’d almost backed out the first time they fooled around proper, almost rolled over on their shared tarp and went to sleep instead of taking things a step further. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he had done that, ‘Hog would have let him and not pushed, not rolled him back over and demanded more. Probably would have just covered him with one big arm and gone to sleep too, no questions asked. It’s one of the many things Junkrat likes about him, and it’s one of the reasons he hadn’t backed out.

He’d yanked down his pants in one decisive motion and stood naked and uncertain until ‘Hog had rumbled and reached out one enormous hand to touch his hip. His fingers curled around to rest on Jamie’s spine and the pad of his thumb pressed into the patch of hair between his legs, rubbed a slow circle there.

He’s had shitty encounters both with guys who were put off by his bits and guys who were far too excited about them. He hadn’t cared much about their reactions. He cared now, cared more than he wanted to.

‘Hog had looked at his face. That had sort of stood out, to be honest. The way he’d stared through the lenses of his mask, gasped when Junkrat straddled his lap and sank down onto him, made those low, urgent noises in the back of his throat like he couldn’t help it. Rolled his hips up in quick jerks, then slow, deep, rocking firmly and he was so damn big Junkrat could only squirm and moan and giggle breathlessly and rut back with the motions. Just before he’d come, ‘Hog had wrapped both arms around Jamison’s middle, squeezed him close and Jamie’d had just a split second of alarm before he realized he wasn’t being crushed and that Roadhog must have slipped his mask off because there were lips on his and when Junkrat threw his head back and howled as he came a second later he heard that deep voice babbling all sorts of nonsense that sounded like _mine_ and _please_ and _stay_.

“We’ll have to make a run into the next town,” ‘Hog had said contemplatively as they tried to catch their breath afterward.

“What?” Junkrat had blinked up at him in a mix of confusion and wariness. “What for?”

“Lube,” he’d replied, turning his head to meet his gaze. “And something we can use next time, so you can fuck me. If you want,” he’d added, folding his hands over his chest and looking up at the sky.

“Okay,” Junkrat had said, stunned and smitten.

They’d had each other at every opportunity since then, after almost every score and in practically every conceivable manner. Roadhog liked to be bent over the bike and fucked hard and fast or to have Junkrat spread out in his lap, taking him slow and steady while the smaller Junker writhed. Junkrat liked— pretty much anything, so long as it was him and Roadhog.

He thought, privately, that Roadhog in a state of arousal was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen in his whole life. And by “privately” he meant he’d thought it once to himself and then immediately told Roadhog, who had blushed. Junkrat thought that Roadhog blushing was also lovely.

The pain sharpens again and Junkrat grunts, guttural and annoyed, opens one eye and sees that the omnic has switched to a pair of shears, clipped off the tip of his thumb.

“Paying attention, Jamison?” The suit asks condescendingly.

Junkrat is sweating, breathing hard, but he shrugs with all the nonchalance he can muster. “Nah. Bored outta me mind.”

The omnic clips off the tip of his middle finger.

“Aw, don’t do that,” he pants, giggling under his labored breaths. “What’s yer boss gonna sit on now?”

The suit sighs.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Junkrat is wheezing with every inhale, shuddery on the exhale. He’s starting to sound like Roadhog, he thinks, and snickers to himself. Everything outside his head seems to be happening in a sort of fog. His hand hurts terribly, but it’s dull, like a toothache. The lights hurt his eyes, but at the same time his vision is sort of fuzzy. He can hear voices, but they don’t seem to be forming real words.

He shakes his head, trying to focus, which is not something he’s ever been great shakes at. The suit says something, and he starts to recognize words as he blinks.

“Above or below the wrist?” The omnic asks, its voice flat and hollow. They’re the first words it’s spoken, and Junkrat flinches at the sound.

“Hmm.” The suit glances at his pale face, then at the mess of his hand. “Dealer’s choice.”

The omnic nods, grip tightening around the handle of the saw, and places the blade just below Junkrat’s wrist.

Junkrat squirms, breathing hard, and then slumps back in the chair, his eyelids fluttering weakly and his mouth slack.

“His pulse is erratic,” he hears the omnic say. “He is passing out, likely going into shock.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” the suit replies dryly.

“I will wake him,” the omnic intones.

Junkrat hears the whine of something electrical charging up, no doubt some nasty little cattle prodder to jolt him awake, and feels the omnic lean over him. Quick as a tripwire, he lunges forward as far as his restraints allow and clamps his teeth around the nearest part of the omnic, gets a good grip and bites down as hard as he can. The robotic being screams, static screech in his ear, and jerks away frantically, dropping whatever tool it was about to use on him. He feels a tooth crack, but maintains his hold until the bit of metal wrenches free in his aching jaw. Cackling as he’s shoved back against the chair, he turns his head to spit out both the tooth and his prize.

The omnic is still screaming, staggering backwards until it crashes into the wall with one hand clamped around the crackling wound in its throat. “You- you vicious fucking beast! You ripped out my fucking gyroscope!”

“Sure did!” His lips are cut all to bits by the jagged metal, gums bleeding and stinging from the sparks, but he’s grinning at this one small victory.

The omnic lurches its way back over to the table, grabs the bonesaw and slams it into his arm like a cleaver, landing crooked a few inches below his right elbow. Blood gushes out, sprays everywhere, and Junkrat howls in agony as the omnic drags the blade back and forth through tendons and muscle. There’s the most horrible scraping sensation when the saw teeth hit bone, the briefest stutter in the omnic’s motions before it redoubles its efforts.

The suit shouts something, but it’s lost in the din of Junkrat’s screams and the omnic’s grating mechanical screech. Junkrat’s vision blurs, goes red at the edges. The red spreads further as the room wobbles and fades, white walls bleeding into each other and going dim and— no. Not dim. Bright. Burning bright, orangey Australian sun beating down on him and the woman next to him, the woman with the same white-blonde hair as his— the sunlight glints off of her hair and the blocky shapes of the metal people coming up the path toward them.

He’s never seen metal people before, but he knows they’re bad, like the bandits and bikers that have tried to attack their home before. He’s trying not to cry, he’s trying to be brave, but he saw what the machines did to his aunties when they went to make them leave, and he’s afraid. He’s holding onto his mother’s leg as she hurries toward the back exit of their cave-house, struggling to keep up with her on his tiny legs. The metal people are already past the big vault doors they use to block up the front entrance, following them out to the escape path. She stops with her back to the wall.

“Run, Junior,” she says to him, not taking her eyes off the approaching figures. He doesn’t move, clings to her leg, and she shoves him with her free hand, the one not holding her shotgun. “Run.”

He stumbles away from her and down the path, along the cliff that slopes downward toward the canyon; if he can get to the canyon he knows how to disappear into the scruffy shrubs and dead trees there. He can still hear his mother shouting, “Come on then! Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough! I’ve seen worse than you ugly smegs!” The gun goes off, and Junior can’t help looking back over his shoulder to see her, her white-blonde hair stark against the red rock as she stares down the omnics and she’s got something in her hand, something familiar— it’s a grenade; he knows because she told him when she caught him playing with one and she told him they were only for emergencies but now she’s holding it aloft and the pin is in her other hand and—

The explosion knocks him head over heels, tumbling a few feet before he rolls to a stop, gets his legs under him and keeps going. He wants to turn around, to go running back to his mother and cry over what’s left of her because he knows she’s dead now, just like his aunties, knows it the same way he knows to keep running no matter what because she taught him to survive from the moment he could crawl and now he’s alone and he’s going to keep doing what she taught him until he can’t anymore.

The omnic takes him by surprise when it drops down onto the path, half a ton of steel landing just next to him and sending up a billowing cloud of sand and dust. He screams and hurls himself away from it, away from its grasping clawlike hands. It pulls itself up from the dirt in a series of clicking movements, like a giant spider, and its many glowing eyes fix on him.

“Stop, child.” Its voice is calm, probably meant to be soothing.

Junior keeps running, his tiny legs pumping away, and the thing comes scuttling after him. He’s almost at the narrow rope bridge that stretches across the gap; if he can get to the bridge he can cut it and be safe long enough to disappear. His feet hit the scruffy ropes and he starts fast-crawling his way across, but there’s a noise behind him and a metal hand clamps around his leg like a trap. He tries to kick free, the ropes twisting, and the omnic says something else but he can’t hear it over his own panicked breathing and the sharp sound of the ropes snapping and then—

He doesn’t remember hitting the canyon floor but when he wakes up that’s where he is, crumpled in the smoking, sparking remains of the omnic. His chest hurts, and his arm and his head, and his leg is still held tight in the omnic’s grip, so tight he can’t even feel it anymore and when he twists around and tries to crawl free there’s a terrible, ripping pain and the omnic’s eyes flicker to life and it screeches at him in its broken, dying voice and his leg hurts so bad and he’s screaming and screaming—

He’s still screaming as he comes back, as the world refocuses and sharpens into the bright glare and cruel angles of the room. The white planes are broken up by swaths of red. The burning smell is stronger now, and he doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t want to but he can’t look anywhere else, he can’t look away from the disorienting sight of his arm, his hand with only two remaining fingers. It seems pale and bizarre lying on the floor in the middle of all that blood. He can see the red, slippery muscle and the jagged bone at the end of the limb, but when he looks down at what remains attached to him it’s clean and shiny and cauterized, sterile. Irreparable.

The room is still echoing with his screams as they peter out, leaving his throat raw and his lungs burning.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The suit looks the bloody mess of Junkrat over and nods, satisfied and self-congratulatory. “We’ll certainly have to raise mister Rutledge’s pay after this. He played his role to perfection. Not many people could deliver someone like you alive and unharmed.”

Junkrat’s head jerks up automatically, his face contorted in pain and confusion. What? No. That can’t… that doesn’t make sense.

“Oh,” the suit says with a little smile. “I’m sorry; I’ve rather shattered your illusions, haven’t I?” They tsk-tsk, shaking their head with a pitying look that he hates. “He is, pardon my French, one hell of an actor despite his unfortunate appearance. He got you— heh— ‘hook’, line and sinker.” They chuckle at their own joke, and Junkrat can only sit there boiling in a mix of hurt and betrayal and, paradoxically, rage at the slight they made against Roadhog’s looks.

The omnic says nothing, has been silent since it finished sawing off Junkrat’s arm, but it stares at him with simmering menace, one hand clamped around his right bicep and the other still clutching the saw.

“I think we can allow our guest a bit of a breather,” the suit announces, checking their screen. “Shall we say… twenty minutes?” They look at him and smile again. “When we return, I’d very much like an answer to my earlier question. Or, if you would prefer, we can continue our work— with, I think, your left leg this time.”

The omnic steps back, releasing Junkrat’s arm, and he forces himself to remain as still as possible (he can’t seem to control the full-body trembling or the shallow, unsteady way he’s breathing) until they both step out of the room. The moment the door closes behind them, he turns as far onto his side as his still-shackled limbs allow, curling up around his freed half-arm. His weak breaths become sobbing, wet gasps that rattle his chest, and he closes his eyes so hard they hurt to block out the room around him. _I’m not here_ , he tells himself. _I’m home on ‘Hog’s bike, I’m… I’m on the road with ‘Hog and we’re gonna stop for the night soon and rest and then tomorrow we’re gonna keep driving forever and ever and…_

But he’s not on the bike, he’s on a steel table and it smells like disinfectant and blood instead of leather and sweat and he can’t feel the familiar heat of the Outback on his skin; he’s so, so cold but he’s sweating bullets and ‘Hog is nowhere nearby because he sold him out. _No, no, no, ‘Hog can’t be working for them, he can’t because… because…_ there’s a reason, there has to be, but he can’t think of it.

But even if he weren’t working for them, what are the chances of him— what, mounting a rescue? Charging in to save his employer-turned-something-else? What are the chances he’s doing anything other than riding as far from here as he can get to sell Junkrat’s treasure to the highest bidder?

They’re watching him, through the glass and on the cameras. He knows that. He knows that and he still can’t stop the sounds coming out of him. He’s going to die here, they’re going to keep hurting him and hurting him until he’s not Junkrat anymore, until he’s empty and mindless and they can fill him with someone else’s thoughts.

There’s a noise, distant rumbling that strikes him as somehow familiar, building and building, growing too loud to ignore and he raises his head at last to look around at the exact moment that one of the walls explodes.

He instinctively tries to flinch away from the shower of rubble as the room is violently expanded, but the movement only wrenches his shackled limbs. Alarms are blaring, lights flashing, and the door slides open to admit a dozen armed guards, but Junkrat is busy staring at the shape that’s slowly resolving out of the falling concrete and drywall dust, the rumbling snarling machine he’d recognize anywhere because he’s ridden the back of it over thousands of miles and the driver who heaves himself off the motorcycle and into the room with a sound like the sun exploding.

Roadhog stands in the rubble like a war god, huge and imposing and radiating imminent destruction. His harsh breathing fills the room, the lights gleaming off the hook in his left hand.

The door slides open with considerably more speed this time and half a dozen armed guards spill into the room, all shouting at once. ‘Hog bellows his throaty laugh and it sounds like a battlecry as he swings his chain, muscles flexing in his tree trunk arm, impaling three of the oncoming attackers at once and sending them crashing into a wall with a bloody splat. He fires two rounds of scrap into the remaining, terrified guards and they crumple to the floor with Junkrat’s severed arm. Junkrat giggles helplessly at that, high and frantic. The sound must cut through the alarms and shouting, because ‘Hog’s head snaps around to focus on him.

“Hi,” Junkrat croaks weakly.

Roadhog makes a noise that’s far more beast than man, his shoulders heaving with raspy breaths. He takes one step toward Junkrat’s chair, then tenses and looks over his shoulder toward the open door, slings his hook into the hallway and drags a squirming, struggling figure into the room: the suit, apparently making a mad dash for freedom. ‘Hog twists his hook as he yanks it out, making them squeal in agonized fear and drop to the floor in a heap. He leaves them there, bleeding and whimpering, and holsters his scrap gun as he approaches the chair. Junkrat can’t stop giggling, his blood-deprived brain half-convinced that this can’t really be happening.

‘Hog pries up the restraints with his hook, snaps the shackle around Junkrat’s left wrist. He reaches for the other arm, falters, hands hovering over the stump. Another sound escapes his mask, ugly and wounded, like he’s the one that’s lost a limb. Involuntarily, Junkrat’s eyes dart toward the now-pitiful figure huddled on the floor. Roadhog’s fingers tighten around the hook until his knuckles go white, and with his other hand he pulls out a spare length of chain from his belt, which he loops around the suit tightly. They keep whimpering as they are dragged across the tile, as the chain is bound to the still-rumbling bike. ‘Hog turns back to Junkrat, who raises both arms hesitantly, and scoops him up to hold him close. Junkrat burrows his face into the soft, familiar crook of Roadhog’s neck, shutting out the bright, flashing lights as he is carried away from the bloody chair.

“Th-the c-c-“ he can’t speak properly, shaking too hard, teeth chattering together uncontrollably, but he has to get the words out. “Hog. D’stroy th-th-the cameras. B-b-burn… ple-please?”

Roadhog glances at the mounted cameras in the corners of the room, nods once but doesn’t stop moving— in fact, he starts moving faster, possibly due to the rapidly approaching sound of more guards.

They reach the gaping hole in the wall, and instead of slinging them both up onto the bike, ‘Hog charges past it, past the weakly-struggling suit still chained to it, out into the barren landscape. Before Junkrat can voice his confusion, or comment on how the building looks smaller than he’d thought, ‘Hog pulls something from his pocket with his free hand. It’s a familiar object, tiny in Roadhog’s fingers— a detonator, one of Junkrat’s detonators. He squints, trying to piece things together as he clings to ‘Hog’s shoulder, and his eyes dart back to the chopper to see his own bulky grenade bag strapped to the engine, the wires and mines bristling across every surface and ‘Hog jams his thumb down on the button.

The bike disappears in a devastating blast of fire, scorching hot through the nighttime chill and bright as a supernova.

Junkrat giggles gleefully at the sight, the welcome heat and smell of scorched desert sand. His laughter dies out a moment later, eyes widening as he realizes what just happened. “‘H-Hog, your bike-“

‘Hog shushes him, ducking a flying piece of flaming debris. The pristine van that Junkrat remembers being shoved into earlier is still parked at the entrance, and Roadhog carefully bundles him into the passenger seat before squeezing himself in the driver’s side and quickly hot-wiring the vehicle. He slams his foot down on the pedal and they skid away, the earth rumbling and the van rocking with the concussive force of a secondary explosion— probably the fire spreading to the building’s genny. Good riddance.

Junkrat’s shaking slows the further they get into the desert, the fog lifting from his mind. His thoughts rearrange themselves, not exactly organized but recognizable as his own once more, comforting in their scattered jitteriness. _If ‘Hog were working for them they would already have the treasure_. He repeats it to himself three times, nods, closes his eyes. He knows that, he knew that earlier but he couldn’t make himself think it clearly. He blinks, glances down at himself and realizes he's still completely nude. Well, it's nothing 'Hog hasn't seen before, but he twists around and finds an abandoned lab coat behind the seat anyway, wraps it around himself. He lets out a slow breath, feels it tremble and realizes he’s crying again. Roadhog must realize it too; he’s pulling the van off the narrow dirt road and behind a crumbling shack, switching off the ignition and turning toward his distressed partner.

Junkrat sniffles, wipes at his eyes and offers ‘Hog a watery smile. “Wanna hear a joke?”

Roadhog looks at him uncertainly. Nods.

“Did-“ Junkrat takes a breath and starts over. “Didja hear about the bloke who lost his left arm and left leg?”

‘Hog continues staring.

“Don’t worry,” Jamison says with a weak giggle. “He’s all right now!”

More staring.

“Do- d’you get it?” Junkrat asks, grinning nervously. “It’s the wrong side, I know, but it doesn’t make sense if-“

“Jamie.” Roadhog interrupts. “It’s a good joke.”

“Yeah?” Junkrat’s grin softens, his remaining fingers drumming against the stub of his right arm.

Roadhog nods and slowly reaches one massive hand across the seat, holding it out palm up, and after a moment’s pause, Jamison puts his own remaining hand into it, feels thick fingers curl around his.

“Here.” ‘Hog pulls a lever under the seat, flipping it back to make room for them both to lay down. Junkrat curls up in his reclined position and watches the filtered light of the moon glint off the lenses of ‘Hog’s mask, yellowy through the polluted clouds outside. Roadhog settles onto his side, facing Junkrat.

There’s a few beats of uncharacteristic silence before Junkrat can’t help blurting, “You blew up your bike.”

‘Hog grunts. There are a lot of complicated undertones in that grunt, but Junkrat’s too exhausted and shaky to try and decipher them.

He tries again. “You love your bike. It- you- it was your bike,“ he finishes lamely.

‘Hog might be looking at him. It’s hard to tell. He grunts a second time, equally complicated, and follows it with, “I can get another bike.”

Junkrat is dumbstruck. Roadhog continues, like he doesn’t notice his companion’s openmouthed expression. “Plenty of scrap about. You need a new leg.” He takes a breath, makes a small gesture, looking down at his own hands as he adds, “New arm. We can build a new bike while we’re at it.”

The silence is deafening. ‘Hog peers at Jamie, who nods and presses himself close for a moment to hide his wobbly grin. “Yeah. Sounds good, mate.” He rubs his cheek against ‘Hog’s shoulder, comforted by the weight of one huge hand settling onto his back, breathes in and out. After a few beats, he draws back, leaving a kiss against his bodyguard’s tan skin. Grins again, more confidently this time, closer to his usual self. “What say we add a sidecar on the new one? So’s I ain’t gotta hang off your arse all the way?”

“I _like_ you hangin’ off my arse,” Roadhog rumbles, making Junkrat blush and giggle. “Sidecar might not be a bad idea, though,” he concedes. “Carry more supplies that way.” Neither of them add that it might be hard for Junkrat to hang onto him on the bike short an arm.

“Yeah,” Jamison nods, warming to the topic. “And it could have some of those spiky dealies on the wheels, for jabbing other people’s tires!”

“Sure.”

“And a mounted turret gun!”

“Hmmm.”

“And a built-in bog so we don’t have to pull over to have a dump!”

“Don’t push it.”


End file.
